


Garrick Ollivander and the Winds of Magic

by Oksbad



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Warhammer Fantasy
Genre: Complete, Crossover, Gen, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:14:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24511393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oksbad/pseuds/Oksbad
Summary: A short story about the finest wand maker in Britain dealing with some tricky customers from far away...
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Of the Heavens and Death

Garrick Ollivander smiled with contentment. Potter had been a tricky customer, and picking a wand for him had taken longer and been more messy than usual. Still, Ollivander felt he had experienced the start of something extraordinary.

Looking at the mess in his shop, Ollivander waved his wand in complicated loops, his face a mask of concentration. Fallen shelves and wands flew back into their proper places, while broken vases and glassware reassembled themselves, good as new.

His tidying done, and with no more customers at the moment, Ollivander put a kettle on the stove and opened up that morning's Daily Prophet. Several pages in, overshadowed by speculation about the Boy-Who-Lived's upcoming first year of magical education, was another article.

"Hogwarts to Accept Foreign Exchange Students."

To call the article sparse would have been an understatement. Beyond the title, and a quote from Dumbledore extolling the virtues of "the enriching experience of experiencing in person other methods of performing magic," it was a series of vague statements from different ministry officials, former and current Hogwarts teachers, and uninformed nobodies who clearly knew no more about the program than Ollivander himself did.

The ring of the bell over Ollivander's door interrupted his reading. He had a customer.

Ollivander saw the back of a small old man with pure white hair, clad in a formal set of blue robes and an ornate pointed hat decorated with stars. The customer was looking around the shop, not seeing, or maybe not caring to notice, Ollivander himself. Oddly, the slight draft that accompanied his entry into the store did not stop once the door closed. Eddies of dust swirled around the shop floor.

"May I help you, sir?" asked Ollivander.

The customer whirled around. "Ah, yes. Ollivander, is it? It seems I need a wand."

Ollivander shook himself in surprise. Staring at him was a fresh-faced child with blue eyes that seemed to glow faintly.

"What's your name, young one?" asked Ollivander, regaining his bearings.

"Klaus Sollman," answered the boy, breaking eye contact to gaze at the rows of wands.

Ollivander tried to call to mind the family of the boy in front of him. Wizarding Britain was small enough, and his memory good enough, that it should have been a simple task. His mind went back to the article he'd been reading.

"Exchange student?" he asked.

"You could say that," replied the child as he stared avidly around the shop. "How do wands work?"

Ollivander blinked. "That is… a simple question with an unbelievably complex answer."

"I am willing to listen," replied the child, finally directing his attention to Ollivander himself.

"... Let's get you your wand first," Ollivander said.

The child pouted in disappointment, but nodded.

Ollivander pulled out a tape measure with silver markings, placing it on the counter.

"Extend your wand arm," he instructed, and after a moment Klaus complied.

As Ollivander pulled several boxes from the stacks of wands piled high in every direction, the tape measure flew about as though it had a life of its own. It took the child's measurements, from his height, to his arm length, to the distance between his nostrils.

"Wow," exclaimed the child, watching the tape measure flit around. "Can it think? Does it feel pain? Is it alive?"

"Er…. No," answered Ollivander. As the tape measure finished its job and returned to the counter, Ollivander gingerly removed a wand from its box.

"Why do you need to measure me like you are fitting me for robes? Do bigger people need bigger wands?" asked the boy.

"Generally yes, but it is not the only factor. There are many -"

"Will I need a bigger wand when I grow up, then?" the boy interrupted, immediately looking guilty for doing so.

"No. Wands are typically used for a witch or wizard's entire life."

"That doesn't make sense. Adults are bigger than children."

Ollivander sighed. The boy clearly had a curious mind, but how could one explain the details of wandlore to a child in a simple conversation?

"It is complex. The size of the wizard matters, but it is not the only thing to consider." Before the child could speak again, Ollivander handed him a wand.

"Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible," he said.

Klaus reached out for the wand, grasped it, and immediately threw it onto the counter between them.

"No, that's wrong. Too _Ghur_ ," he said.

Ollivander looked at him in confusion.

"Beasty," said the boy, in an attempt to clarify.

Ollivander did not understand what the boy was talking about, but he agreed that the wand was unsuitable. He pulled out another one.

"Willow and unicorn hair. Eight inches, bendy"

Again, the child threw it back. "Same. Beasty."

Ollivander pulled out a third wand.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy."

"Too fiery," responded the child.

And so it went, the pile of used wands growing higher and higher. Ollivander's job dealt mainly with matching picky wands with an enthusiastic witch or wizard. Picky customers were a comparative rarity.

The oddest thing was that the child was _consistent_. Even after Ollivander stopped telling him the wand cores, he still rejected unicorn hair and dragon heartstring wands as "too beasty" and phoenix feather wands as "too fiery."

Ollivander looked thoughtfully at the tall pile of discarded wands. Perhaps the wands were picking up on the child's imminent rejection. As Klaus rejected yet another wand, he remarked, voice tinged with annoyance:

"You know, typically it is the wand that chooses the wizard."

"Wands are alive?" asked the child, eyes wide with excitement.

"In a sense," replied Ollivander.

"But the tape measure wasn't? How does that make sense?"

"The tape measure is animated by a wizard's will. Wands have personalities distinct from those that make them."

"Like the difference between possession and making a child, then?" asked Klaus.

"I suppose," Ollivander replied.

"Is matching a wand to a wizard mere trial and error?"

Ollivander bristled, but reminded himself not to get angry at this wide-eyed child.

"No. But it is more akin to painting than to making a potion. There are techniques that work, but it is not following a recipe or set of instructions, either. It is an art."

Ollivander expected more questions from the child, but he instead seemed lost in thought. In the silence, Ollivander stared at the pile of wands. It was extremely rare, but not unheard of, for a wizard to require a wand not made with one of the three supreme cores.

"None of these cores seem to agree with you. We may have to try something different," said Ollivander, as he began to dig around in a seldom-accessed trunk.

"The point is to find something compatible with me and my magic, right?" asked the child.

"Essentially, yes."

"Well, my, uh, _caretakers_ have always been connected to the heavens," said the child "They debate philosophy, tell riddles, and study fate."

Ollivander considered this information. After a few seconds, his eyes lit up.

"Sphinx hair!" he exclaimed.

"Sphinxes exist? Live ones?" asked Klaus, brimming with excitement

Ollivander ignored the boy and continued digging through the trunk. He had one particular wand on his mind, one he had made before he settled on the three supreme cores, for a very promising seer. The wand had rejected her and had been gathering dust for decades…

"Here!" he exclaimed. "Silver lime and sphinx hair. Fourteen inches. Unyielding."

The child reached out and grasped the wand. Reflexively, Ollivander waited for him to reject it. Instead, the child stared at it with fascinated eyes. Suddenly, his robes billowed as if being blown upwards by a draft, and his eyes glowed pure blue. Images of stars, comets and planets shot out of the wand to orbit the child's head. They looked familiar, yet somehow off. Ollivander saw a comet with two tails, a warped copy of Earth, and a sickly green moon.

Eventually, the images faded.

The child lunged forward, hugging Ollivander.

"Thank you!" he said.

"Thank you, young one," came Ollivander's response. "It seems the wands still have much to teach me."

The child counted out seven galleons from a small pouch and handed them to Ollivander. As he turned to leave, he asked one final question.

"May I write to you, sir? To talk about wandlore?"

Ollivander smiled. "Of course. Best of luck, Klaus."

As the child left, Ollivander pulled out a quill and some parchment to record his observations of the day. He was only halfway through when the bell rang once more.

Ollivander turned to the door and yelped in shock. Standing in the doorway was a young girl in black robes, like those of a Death Eater. Long black hair framed a pale, sunken face and dead eyes.

"I need a wand," a dull voice intoned, as its owner stared right through him.

"...Right." said Ollivander, recovering quickly. "What's your name?"

"Morticia Marsner," came her reply.

"Not from here, then?"

The girl shook her head.

"Very well... " Ollivander brought the tape measure back out and left it to its work. Unlike Klaus, the girl stood entirely still and silent.

Ollivander offered the girl a dozen different wands, their woods compatible with those of a more melancholic and tranquil character. Each time, the girl held the wand to no effect until Ollivander reached forward to reclaim it.

"You know," said Ollivander, "I had another tricky customer just before you. It helped when I learned how he was raised and what he valued. What influenced your upbringing?"

"Death," answered the girl.

Ollivander swallowed. "The dark arts, then?" he asked, considering calling for an auror.

In a single moment, the girl's entire demeanor changed.

"How dare you? No!" she yelled. "Dark Magisters and Necromancers make mockery of death, turning it to their evil ends. We understand death's place in the natural order, and fight them with all our might."

The two of them fell silent.

"My mother died fighting dark wizards," the girl said, returning to her usual voice.

"I'm sorry," said Ollivander. In truth, he was disturbed by the child in front of him, but he saw no reason to deny her a wand. Earlier that day, he'd sold wands to the scions of the Malfoy and Goyle families. He suspected they were much more likely to be used for evil than anything he could give to the child in front of him.

Thinking of a possible wand, Ollivander cringed. There was one that fit the bill. He'd made it during one summer when he was a young lad, still studying at Hogwarts. He was moodier then, and in fact had been wallowing in a bit of a macabre phase. In a fit of pique he had made a wand from the wood of a tree from a graveyard, with a core from a creature steeped in death. The wand had rejected him, and as he matured he'd come to see it as an embarrassing part of his youth.

He didn't even keep it in the shop. It was buried in a box with the rest of his teenage things. He excused himself to fetch it from his home above the store, and returned to find the young woman unmoved.

"Hawthorn and thestral tail hair, eleven inches, brittle."

The girl looked at him, skeptical.

"Thestrals are noble creatures connected intimately with death, and hawthorn smells of death but heals the world. It seemed appropriate," said Ollivander.

The girl reached forward and grasped the wand. Amethyst light swirled around her, and Ollivander thought he heard haunting whispers. Ethereal figures, not exactly ghosts, but perhaps echoes of them, appeared around the shop. The one by his workbench seemed to have the features of his father, but before he could be sure, they disappeared.

A small smile appeared on the girl's face. "Thank you," she said, and handed Ollivander seven Galleons.

Still stunned by the glimpse of his father, Ollivander nodded absentmindedly. The girl left. The closing door broke his trance, and he looked at his potted plant. It was dead.

At least his afternoon tea was ready. Thinking about it for a moment, he took a bottle out of one of the drawers of his workbench and added a finger of firewhisky to his cup.

Just as he was enjoying his first sip, the bell rang once more.


	2. Of Shadow and Flame

At first Ollivander thought it was just the wind, for he saw no customers in the store. Then he saw her, a girl in simple grey robes, almost invisible in the shadows in the corner of the shop. Ollivander made a mental note to fix his lamps; they seemed dim and were causing the girl's shadow to move as if dancing.

"Hello! I'm here for my wand, I've been waiting for this for so long!"

The difference from his last customer's detached manner was large enough that Ollivander was caught off guard. "What's your name, young lady?" he asked, momentarily discomposed.

"Mathilda Weasley," said the girl, smiling.

Ollivander looked at the girls's dark hair in disbelief.

"Distant cousin," said the girl, slightly nervous. "Illegitimate," she whispered, lowering her voice.

"Right," said Ollivander. "Stand here please, and extend your arm."

Once more the tape measure set to work as Ollivander gathered some wands he thought could be promising. Mathilda watched every movement like a hawk.

"Cedar and unicorn hair, ten inches, bendy," said Ollivander, handing a wand to Mathilda.

No effect.

"So how many wands do you sell in a year, sir?" asked Mathilda, as Ollivander took the wand back.

"A few hundred," said Ollivander, absentmindedly, handing her another wand. "Ash and dragon heartstring, eleven inches, supple."

Again, nothing.

"What house were you in, sir? I'm so nervous about the ceremony."

"Ravenclaw," answered Ollivander, taking the wand back. "With the cleverest of them. Don't you worry, though. Hogwarts welcomes all sorts of students, and the Hat's not going to put you anywhere you'd be miserable."

Ollivander thought for a moment before picking out the next wand.

"Hazel and phoenix feather, nine inches, slightly bendy."

Yet again, no effect.

"Are any wands better at certain things than other wands are?" asked the girl.

"There are patterns," said Ollivander, taking the wand back. "but it is the wizard that is the most important. Besides, one must ask if, for example, a fir wand truly makes one a better hand at transfiguration, or if fir wands select those with talent for it."

Ollivander picked out another wand.

"Acacia and dragon heartstring, thirteen and a half inches, unyielding," he said, handing yet another wand to the girl.

Once more, no effect.

"Are there any wands more inclined towards those with good or evil intent?"

Ollivander hesitated.

"My father always said you can never fool a cedar carrier, and applewood is poorly suited to dark magic. However, most of the superstitions are unfounded. Yew gained a sinister reputation because of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but yew wands have been buried with as many heroes as villains. Blackthorn wands were used by many Death Eaters, true, but also by many of the aurors who fought them," Ollivander said, narrowing his eyes.

Perhaps if he hadn't read the article, or helped two other "exchange students," he'd have believed the little girl in front of him was normal and continued to test his regular wands. But given the circumstances...

"You know, _Weasley_ , I've helped two other people already today with _unusual_ magical characteristics. Perhaps if you tell me what your magic feels it is best suited for, I can help you better with picking a wand."

The girl hesitated, caught between continuing her ruse and her desire for a compatible wand. Eventually, she tried a third path.

"I've always felt invisible and my shadow's always acted funny," she said.

Ollivander considered this. He didn't have a wand for her, but he did have an idea of what material he could use.

Hurrying again to the small apartment above his shop, he fetched his owl and wrote out an order for the apothecary down the alley. The owl fluttered out of the window into the warm afternoon sun, weighed down by the twenty galleons he'd included with his order. That was more than he'd make from the wand, but he had loftier goals than pure profit.

Waiting for the owl to return, he looked through his stash of wood, seeking leftovers from an abandoned project attempting to use the roots of wandwood trees. Finding them, Ollivander picked out a piece of acacia root. The most shaded part of a tricky tree, and a wandwood for witches and wizards with a penchant for subtlety.

With the same knife he had used for decades, he carved the wand "blank:" a small, stubby rod of root wood. The girl tried to converse with him, but his responses were short and curt. Little could distract him when he was working on a new wand.

As he finished, the owl returned with his order, and Ollivander put the parcel on the counter.

"The wood matters, of course, but it is the core of the wand that gives it its true power. Take a look at these, and tell me what speaks to you," said Ollivander.

On the counter he put a vial of ectoplasm, ink from a giant squid, the skin of a lethifold, and the invisible hairs of a demiguise.

The girl looked first at the ectoplasm. "This one is of death, not shadow."

She looked at the ink.

"This is good. It is shadow, as it engulfs, conceals, and misdirects."

She then turned to the lethifold skin and recoiled.

"This is of _Dhar_ -rrrrk, not shadow. It's evil."

As Ollivander put the skin away, the girl examined the demiguise hairs. She reached forward and grasped them easily, as if she could see them.

"This is excellent. It is shadow, as it hides and births illusions."

Ollivander took the squid ink and demiguise hairs back to his workbench. Immediately, he faced either the challenge of somehow putting a liquid core in a wand, or working with a substance that was invisible. He considered using some manner of disillusionment or solidifying charm, but feared that he would compromise the material.

Looking between the two substances, Ollivander's mind hit on the obvious solution. It was unorthodox, but his day had been anything but orthodox.

 _In for a knut, in for a sickle,_ he thought, dipping the demiguise hairs in the squid ink. The hair now visible, he waved his wand, and the strands danced as they borrowed their way into the acacia wood. It was a complex and delicate charm, taking well over an hour. His work done, Ollivander drained his now cold tea and presented the wand to the little girl.

"A unique wand, for sure. Acacia root and giant squid ink-soaked demiguise hair. Five inches. Unyielding."

The girl reached out for the wand. Instantly, the room was engulfed in darkness, as if somebody had poured out an entire pouch of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.

Just as suddenly, the darkness retreated, drawing itself back into the little girl's shadow. The girl smiled.

"This is wonderful," she said. "How much do I owe?"

"Seven Galleons," Ollivander replied.

The girl's eyes widened. She counted the money and handed it over.

"Stay out of trouble, now," said Ollivander as the girl moved to leave.

"Of course," she responded, giggling as she left the shop.

 _I must be getting tired,_ thought Ollivander, _or did she close the door with her shadow?_

Ollivander poured himself a fresh cup of tea, this one with two fingers of firewhisky. As he sipped his drink and prepared to return to his musings on the potential of the new wand materials he'd used today, the bell rang yet again.

This time it was a short boy with fire-red hair, Gryffindor-red robes, and muscular bare arms.

"Ronald Weasley?" asked Ollivander in confusion. The hair certainly fit, though he didn't think the boy was so… buff.

"What? No, stupid! I'm Hans Fuegonasus. I need a wand."

 _Another one?_ thought Ollivander, pausing to drain his tea.

"Very well, stand there," he said, letting the tape measure do its job. Hans fidgeted with impatience, delaying the measurements.

Ollivander handed the boy his first wand, not particularly expecting it to work.

"Holly and unicorn hair, fourteen inches, supple."

The boy grasped the wand. To Ollivander's surprise, steam and heat wafted off the boy as the store heated up.

"That was easy..." said Ollivander.

Then the wand caught on fire. In seconds, the wand turned to ash, falling through the boy's fingers to the dusty floor.

The boy looked down at the pile of ash, then back at Ollivander.

"Sorry…" he said sheepishly.

Ollivander looked at the pile of ash, his heart dropping. Not eager to feed his precious wands into a furnace, he considered his options carefully.

Klaus's words for every phoenix feather wand came to his mind.

_Too fiery._

Quickly selecting the next wand, Ollivander handed it to the boy.

"Sycamore and phoenix feather, eleven and a half inches, firm."

Once again, steam and heat, this time even more intense. Once again, the wand caught on fire. Once again, before Ollivander could douse it, it turned to ash and fell into a heap on the floor.

This time, however, the phoenix feather remained intact between the boy's fingers.

"Why are these wands so flammable? Can't they take a bit of magic?" asked the boy.

"Never an issue before," mumbled Ollivander.

Ollivander grabbed the feather from the boy. He wanted to kick him out, but his reason prevailed. The boy was rude, but he'd served worse. His incineration of the wands seemed truly unintentional, destructive as it was.

 _The wood is the weak point,_ thought Ollivander. _What wood does not burn?_

 _Redwood,_ the answer came to him almost immediately.

He quickly found the wand he was looking for. The thought of selecting a wand wood for such mundane reasons as flammability bothered him, but his last few customers had turned his understanding of wandlore on its head.

"Redwood and phoenix feather, fifteen inches, brittle," said Ollivander, hesitating before handing the wand over.

Impatient, the boy reached forward and snatched it.

Once more steam and heat rose from the boy, and once more fire licked at the wand. The wood charred, its surface turning jet black. But it did not burn, remaining intact. The boy laughed in joy, revelling in the flames. As the moments passed, the flames grew hotter, spreading over his body. The boy's fire-red hair was replaced by actual fire.

"AGUAMENTI!" roared Ollivander, his voice tinged with fear.

The boy yelped in a high voice as the water doused him.

"Why did you do that, you crazy old man?" he shouted, shivering.

"This is a wooden store selling wooden wands. I don't need you burning it down," Ollivander said sternly.

The boy seethed, shivering far more than the tepid water generated by Ollivander's spell warranted.

"Besides," continued Ollivander, "even in the wizarding world, young boys on fire are put out."

Grinding his teeth, the boy counted 35 galleons out onto the shop's counter.

"That's too much. Wands are seven galleons a piece," said Ollivander, shaking his head.

"I know," said the boy. "I'll take five. Send them to the Leaky Cauldron, or Hogwarts if it will take too long to prepare them."

Ollivander looked at him, dumbfounded. The boy continued:

"Your wand is good and all, but no wood can resist fire for a lifetime."

"That's not how it works! No two phoenix feathers are alike, and this is no _factory_ ," cried Ollivander.

"Then I'll send the feather back and you can reset it in new wood! I don't care, I need to leave!" shouted the boy.

Still shivering, the boy ran out the door, before Ollivander could react.

For all his brashness, he could not fault the boy's logic. But despite all his heterodoxy today, viewing a wand as disposable was a bridge too far for Ollivander.

Thinking on the issue of flammability, he penned letters to potion masters and herbology experts he knew, including Professors Snape and Sprout, asking if there were ways to make wood fireproof without leaving an unwanted magical residue.

Seeking solutions far and wide, Ollivander even wrote muggle-post letters meant for mundane lumber companies, for he knew they had their own potions and treatments that could affect the properties of wood. Ollivander chuckled. On the occasions he'd dealt with them, he'd spent a good deal of effort ensuring that they wouldn't ruin the purity of the wood with such methods.

Before the ink was dry, the bell rang yet again. Ollivander sighed. He had been about to fix himself another cup of spiked tea, but instead opted for some of the firewhisky neat.


	3. Of Life and Metal

"Hello there! You must be Ollivander. Could you help me?"

Ollivander looked at his newest customer, a slender barefoot girl with brown skin. Colorful flowers seemed to grow out of her black hair, and she was clad in muddy green robes.

"Of course. Are you here for a wand? What's your name?"

"Yes, sir," came the gentle reply. "I am Panorama Grun."

 _At least she's more pleasant than the last one,_ thought Ollivander.

"Stand here, young girl," said Ollivander. The girl smiled, and skipped to the spot he indicated.

Again, the tape measure did its job as Ollivander picked out candidate wands.

"Maple and unicorn hair. Ten inches, moderately bendy," said Ollivander, handing it to the young girl.

The girl grabbed the wand. The wood of the wand shifted in her hand as shoots and leaves sprouted all along it. Ollivander was initially optimistic, until he saw the young girl shaking her head sadly.

"That happens to almost all of the deadwood I touch. I can not channel my magic through this."

Ollivander frowned, inspecting the wand. Finding it to be only cosmetically damaged, he took a pair of shears from his workbench and started snipping off the wand's new growths.

"What's interfering with your magic?" he asked, hoping the question might help to avoid another period of fruitless trial and error... Not to mention pruning.

"Don't get me wrong, sir, your wand was very in tune with nature. But its power comes from the aspect of the beast. Nature also has a more nurturing side, one which I am connected to. It is that of the green. Plants," said the girl, her voice soft.

 _Unicorn hair is probably the closest to what she is talking about,_ thought Ollivander. _If that didn't work, the others will fare even worse._

Ollivander's thoughts turned to wand wood. All the wood he used was mundane, yet it channelled magic. Perhaps…

Ollivander fetched a wand blank from one of the drawers in his work bench.

"Maple, fifteen inches, no core, rather bendy. Give it a whirl."

The girl picked up the wand. Again, leaves sprouted out of the sides and the tip.

"Well," the girl said, hesitating, "it is a very nice _stick_."

Ollivander frowned. Why had he thought that would work?

"But I already have lots of nice sticks from the forest," the girl continued.

Ollivander's mind raced. What could make a plantlike core? Something from a bowtruckle, perhaps?

 _I'm thinking about this the wrong way,_ he thought, remembering an old project. _What if the wood itself was magical?_

"Wait here," he said, dashing to the small garden on the roof of his shop. He was looking for a very particular sapling.

"Wingardium Leviosa," he whispered, floating the sapling in front of him as gently as possible as he made his way down the stairs, taking care to avoid contact with the walls or ceiling. Warning the child to stay well back, he set it on the counter, sighing with relief.

The child looked at the sapling as if admiring a kitten.

 _Seems promising,_ thought Ollivander.

"This is a Whomping Willow sapling. Rare and very magical," said Ollivander.

He rubbed his wrist.

"It's also very dangerous. Broke my wrist last time I tried to make a wand of it," he continued.

The child's face fell.

"That's terrible!" she shouted, tears welling up in her eyes.

Ollivander waved his hand. "It was easy to set, didn't even need to go to St. Mungo's. Of course I can't sell a wand that…"

"Not for you!" said the child, crossing her arms. "How would you feel if somebody cut you open and stuffed you with hairs and feathers?"

Ollivander frowned, not sharing the child's sympathy for the violent plant. With great care, he levitated a set of pruning shears towards the willow, preparing himself to make one clean cut.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" shouted the child, breaking his concentration. The shears clattered to the ground.

"You can't exactly use the whole tree as a wand," said Ollivander, considering sending her away while he worked.

Too late, he realised he'd just put a very dangerous idea into the child's head. She stepped forward, firmly grabbing the trunk of the sapling. In an instant the tree twisted. Branches wrapped around the child's arm like thick strands of ivy, all the way up to her shoulder.

Ollivander panicked, thinking he'd hear a sickening snap at any second. He readied himself to cast a severing charm.

"No!" shouted the child, seemingly sensing what he was about to do. The sapling continued up her arm and wrapped itself around her body like a snake. The roots released their hold on the soil of the pot and followed the rest of the sapling. The child laughed, and a strand of wood migrated up to her head, delicately wrapping itself around it like a crown. From there, a wooden tendril wound down her arm, gently worming its way through her closed fist and extending another foot before stopping.

 _Like a wand,_ thought Ollivander. _Whomping Willow, forty inches… slithering._

Birdsong filled the shop as green light pooled across the floor. In a moment, grass and flowers sprouted from the floorboards.

The wooden tendrill snaked itself back into the child's sleeve, disappearing from sight.

"This is wonderful," she said, counting out seven galleons. As she left, Ollivander struggled to make sense of a _gentle_ Whomping Willow. Apathy was the best one could expect from the violent trees, and that was almost always reserved for animals, not humans.

Despite a certain amount of anxiety over having sold an extremely dangerous plant to a child, he was happy it was gone. Whomping Willows were very rare and supposedly valuable, but it was difficult to find somebody to take them. The damn thing had smacked him many times as he had tried to take care of it.

Considering the implications of his most recent sale, Ollivander added to his notes. Could somebody like Professor Sprout tame a Whomping Willow wand?

It was then that Ollivander realized that the plants sprouting from his floor had not disappeared with the girl's departure. He sighed, and sighed even harder when he realized the plants were alive and did not count as detritus for the purposes of his cleaning charm.

At least his potted plant had revived; it was now blooming.

Through magic and mundane tools, he spent the next hour removing the plants from his floorboards. Just as he finished, the bell on this door rang. Ollivaner took a deep breath, rubbing his face with his hand. He could hear his customer's heavy footsteps, and an odd clanking noise, as if this latest arrival were covered in armor.

"Master Ollivander?" came a harsh, ugly voice. "Is this a bad time?"

"No, no," He responded, turning to face the newcomer. Once more, he was taken aback. In front of him was a young boy with olive skin and full cheeks. He was wearing a metal helmet straight out of a history book, and chains and plates haphazardly criss-crossed his robes, making him look like a parody of a knight.

"I was told this was the best place to get a wand," the boy said. His rattling breath reminded Ollivander of a dementor, and would have been out of place on a man four times his age.

"Right. Step up here, what's your name, young man?"

"Benedict Habermas, sir."

Ollivander let the tape measure do its job once more.

"So I picked up some books on wandlore at Flourish and Blotts..."

"Oh?" asked Ollivander, picking through potential wands. "I didn't know they covered that so early."

"They don't," the boy answered. "They were fine reads, but they seemed more interested in listing what happens than explaining why it happens."

Ollivander did not respond. The boy continued.

"Like, what is it about the different types of wood that gives them their unique properties? _Why_ is Acacia 'tricky'? _Why_ is willow 'good for healing'? Is it the moisture in the woods, the content of the soil, elements in the sap?"

"Magic?" said Ollivander, bemused.

"You know that's not true! The wood you use is mundane."

Ollivander handed the boy a wand to try:

"Walnut and dragon heartstring, eleven and half inches, supple."

Nothing happened, and Ollivander took the wand back. At least it hadn't been damaged or destroyed this time.

"Have you read through your potions book?" asked Ollivander.

The boy nodded.

"How many potions require beetle eyes? How many would do nothing if they were omitted? Nothing magical about those. Magic is as magic does."

"Had enough of that talk back home," said the boy, sulking, his childish demeanor at odds with his harsh voice.

"Ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy," said Ollivander, handing another wand to the boy.

Again nothing. Ollivander took the wand back. Seeing the boy deep in thought, Ollivander decided to humor him.

"Sometimes the connection is simple. You mentioned willow for healing. The willow tree has been used medicinally for centuries. Even by muggles."

The boy waved his hand dismissively.

"Yes, yes, but the healers are hardly feeding their wands to the sick and injured, are they? And they're not just good at healing what willow cures! Besides, there is nothing about, say, red oaks that I'd connect to dueling."

"They do grow rather fast, for trees," Ollivander pointed out. "Speed matters quite a bit in dueling."

"I look forward to your line of lethal bamboo dueling wands, then," replied the boy, sardonically.

Ollivander chuckled and handed the boy another wand.

"Spruce and phoenix feather, thirteen and a half inches, firm."

Again, nothing. On a hunch, Ollivander fished out an atypical wand from deep within one of his least used chests. If the core had worked for star-boy…

"Walnut and sphinx hair, nine inches, bendy," said Ollivander.

"Wait, sphinxes exist?" asked the boy.

Ollivander nodded. Mumbling about the need to pick up more books, the boy reached for the wand.

Nothing.

The armored boy sighed, his breath rattling unpleasantly. "These are all wrong! Wrong in so many ways…"

Ollivander looked at him silently.

"For me, at least," he continued, "They just feel…"

"Too 'beasty'? Too 'fiery'?" asked Ollivander, interrupting.

"Well, yes," said the boy, "and that last one was too aloof. But that's not the worst issue. They are so… _raw._ No refinement, no polish."

Ollivander stared at the boy, trying not to take offense.

 _Something refined and polished? Metal, then? He's more likely to find something attuned to him in some goblin workshop,_ thought Ollivander. _What am I supposed to do? Shove a sneakoscope into a wand?_

He felt like another quick draught of firewhiskey, but self control prevailed. Instead, he poured himself a tall glass of pumpkin juice, sprinkling in some cinnamon, and took out a long spoon to stir it.

"What's that?" asked the boy, before Ollivander could take a sip.

"This? Pumpkin juice. Would you like some?" asked Ollivander.

"No." The boy approached him. "The spoon."

Ollivander removed the spoon from the cup.

"It's just a spoon," said Ollivander. "Silver, I think."

Both of them looked at the dirty spoon.

"Goblin-wrought silver. Spell-forged," said Ollivander, his voice quiet from realization.

"How old is it?" asked the boy, gazing at the spoon as though he was looking right through it.

Ollivander thought.

"Over two hundred years. Part of a set gifted to my ancestor for some part he played fighting a goblin rebellion, apparently."

Slowly, the child reached out and took the spoon, still dripping pumpkin juice, from Ollivander.

 _Goblin-wrought silver, six inches, unyielding,_ thought some automatic part of Olivander's mind. _A spoon is not a wand!_ interrupted his common sense.

As soon as he grasped it, the boy seized up. His eyes shot wide open, glowing gold. He spoke, as if in a trance.

"Forged in the great goblin forges, by the Grand Artificer Argok the Clever. Part of a set given to Warmaster Urg for his wedding. Looted, from beneath his corpse, by his killer, Gernebern Ollivander. Used by eight generations of Ollivanders, soaked in magic as brilliant men and women worked their craft in this shop."

Suddenly, the boy relaxed, released from his trance, his eyes returning to normal.

"This, I need this. How much?" asked the child.

Ollivander hesitated. The spoon itself held little sentimental value for him, especially now that the boy's vision had lent weight to his suspicion that his ancestor had looted it, but he was at a loss for how much he should charge. He sold only two items in his shop - wands for seven galleons, and peacock feathers for a knut.

This was clearly no wand, but it was even less a peacock feather.

"Seven galleons."

The boy counted the money, trying to hide his joy at the bargain. Hurriedly, he thanked Ollivander, and with a series of clanks, quickly left the shop, perhaps fearing that Ollivander would change his mind.

 _Is that all of them?_ wondered Ollivander. _It's been… interesting, but it would be nice to close shop and have supper._

But, as if to mock him, the bell rang once more.


	4. Of Light and Beast

A boy with pale skin and cropped black hair walked in, determination evident in his piercing gaze.

"A weapon! I need a weapon!"

The boy spoke in a voice that was commanding, yet choral.

Ollivander looked at him, bemused.

"I think you are lost, young one," he said.

The boy glared at him, unimpressed.

"You make wands, do you not?" he said.

Ollivander fixed him with a stern look.

"A wand is not a sword. You'd do well to remember that. If you start on a path of cruelty and darkness, you'll not go far."

The pale child looked at Ollivander with disbelief.

"Cruelty? Darkness? What do you take me for? Those are what I seek to fight! How will they be driven back without warriors of the light, properly armed?" said the child.

Ollivander's expression softened. It was strange, almost as if the boy was from a different time. He'd seen similar attitudes in new students during He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's reign of terror, mostly in future Gryphindors.

"Listen to me. You want to fight the dark arts? Hogwarts can teach you. But if you view your wand as a weapon and nothing more, your powers will be stunted and useless."

The boy listened, his expression relaxing.

"Very well. A wand, please," said the boy, either convinced or determined to tell Ollivander what he wanted to hear.

Ollivander reached for the tape measure, but stopped short. His usual methods were no help with his most recent customers. Instead, he rummaged about in his store of raw materials and curios. On the counter, he placed samples of unicorn hair, dragon heartstring, and phoenix feather, as well as a unicorn horn, a bezoar, and two vials - one of a potent antidote, and another of dittany.

"These three are the supreme cores I use for almost all of my wands," said Ollivander, pointing out the first three items. "And the rest are substances that fight sickness, corruption, and darkness. Look at them, and tell me what you see."

The child looked over the dragon heartstring and phoenix feather. "These are strong. I know magisters who'd pay a fortune for focuses such as these. They're not for me, though."

He moved on to the unicorn hair, looking at it with more interest. "This is pure. It rejects the presence of evil," said the child. "But it is too compromised by its bestial nature."

He moved on to the unicorn horn. "This fights darkness and rot, but… still wrong."

Ollivander looked at him.

"How so?" asked Ollivander.

The boy looked lost for words, and hesitated before answering.

"It's so full of life, so soothing. It's not me," he said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "This is a soothing balm, while I seek something more like the scouring rays of the sun. Illuminating, radiant, harsh, and purifying."

"But not actual fire?" asked Ollivander, deep in thought.

"No," answered the boy, moving on to the vials.

"These are the same. Weaker than the horn."

Ollivander looked at the boy, trying to think of a suitable material.

"How does your kind hold back the dark? Slay its beasts? See past the illusions woven by its agents?" asked the boy.

Ollivander, lost in thought, did not answer. He could think of a few items that would fit the bill. There were artifacts used by Gringotts curse-breakers that helped them see and expunge curses and traps. Alastor Moody, the ex-auror, had an eye that was said to be particularly perceptive. Not that he'd be able to stick any of those in a wand, or even get his hands on them.

What else could do those things?

Many muggles and some wizards believed certain substances were inherently purifying. Sacred powders, oils, woods. Even water from a certain river or well, or blessed by a priest…

 _Wait._ Inspiration struck him. _Water, Gringotts, illusions._

"I have to go!" exclaimed Ollivander, gathering his earnings for the day into a pouch and stuffing an empty bottle and small key into his robes.

The boy looked at him, dumbfounded.

"Temporarily," clarified Ollivander, waving his hand. "Come back in an hour or two."

The boy left the shop, confused. Ollivander hung up a sign indicating he'd be back soon, locked up, and dashed in the direction of Gringotts, drawing stares from the other denizens of Diagon Alley.

When he reached the bank, the line was short, but his patience was shorter as he glanced frequently at the large clock on the wall. Finally reaching the head of the line, he presented his key to the goblin at the counter, who assigned a goblin named Griphook to take him to his vault.

Moments later, they were hurtling down the winding path in a small, noisy cart. The Ollivander name was older, wealthier, and more prestigious than most, and his vault was correspondingly deeper.

Ollivander's memory was good, but he was never able to remember every twist and turn. He did, however, remember the rough location of one specific feature.

He heard the roar of a waterfall, further down the track.

_The Thief's Downfall._

His entry being properly authorized, his cart would not pass through it. It would, however, pass rather close.

Making sure Griphook was not looking at him, Ollivander pulled out his bottle. What he was about to do might not have been technically prohibited, but he did not like the idea of explaining it to the goblins.

Ollivander extended his hand, intending to dip the bottle into the waterfall. But the roaring waters ripped the bottle out of his grasp, and it disappeared into the darkness below.

Ollivander cursed silently, not wishing to draw Griphook's attention. He drew his wand.

"Accio bottle," he whispered, to no effect.

_The waters must be interfering with the charm._

Noticing that he was almost at the end of the waterfall, he threw caution aside and leaned his entire body out of the cart, nearly toppling over the edge. The cold waters splashed over him, soaking his robes. He gasped. The noise of the cart was such that Griphook had not noticed any of this. Soon, the cart slowed down, stopping in front of his vault.

Griphook stepped out and unlocked the vault, then looked back, his puzzled eyes scanning Ollivander's soaking robes.

"Thought I saw something," said Ollivander sheepishly. "I leaned out too far. My fault."

"Wizards…" grumbled Griphook.

Ollivander walked into his vault, counted the money in his pouch, placed it atop a nearby stack of gold coins, and walked back out.

As Griphook directed the cart back up to the Gringotts main hall, Ollivander curled beneath the rim, not wanting his precious water to be blown away by the wind. Once the cart stopped again, he thanked the goblin and walked out of the bank, dripping wet.

He made a beeline back to his shop, almost knocking over Professor Quirrell. Ollivander apologized without stopping, and pressed on, shivering; the weakening rays of the evening sun did little to warm him. Back at his shop, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He stripped and put on fresh clothes, placing his wet robes in a large bowl. Ollivander brought the bowl down to his workshop and wrung every bit of moisture he could from the robes - by hand, for fear of his magic interfering with that of the water.

Ollivander glanced at his collection of wand blanks. With the optimistic hope that the child was indeed "pure of heart" with "high ideals," rather than just a zealot, he picked up a stiff piece of apple wood, and dipped it into the waters of the bowl.

An hour later, the child returned, holding some new books. Evidently, he'd done some of his other school shopping in the meantime.

Ollivander plucked the applewood blank out of the water and presented it to the child.

"Try this," he said.

The child grasped the wet wand, staring at it in deep concentration.

"This has some power. But it is subtle and weak. Like a scent, or an echo."

Ollivander grimaced. As the child continued staring at the blank from every angle, he thought over the boy's words.

_Driving back the darkness… and its creatures._

Ollivander closed his eyes, grabbed his wand, and remembered the first time he had held his son.

"Expecto Patronum!" he incanted, eyes wet with tears of joy.

A silver raven erupted from the tip of his wand, flying around the shop before perching on a hatstand by the door.

The boy looked at Ollivander's patronus with eyes full of wonder, falling to his knees.

"It's beautiful," he whispered, tears streaming down his face.

The raven was rather handsome, but Ollivander knew the boy was seeing more than just its image.

"Can you use… that?" asked the child.

Ollivander shook his head.

"It is ethereal and of my magic. I could no more put it in your wand than I could my own shadow."

The boy looked crestfallen.

"And yet… Patronuses leave traces where they pass."

Ollivander took the wand blank back from the boy and returned it to the water. With his wand, he directed his Patronus to fly through the bowl from different angles, the water briefly glowing white each time.

He continued this for hours. When his Patronus winked out of existence, he took the briefest of breaks, then resummoned it. The child refused to leave, simply watching the Patronus fly around the shop, enraptured. Three times, a "normal" wizarding family interrupted them, bemused by the strange scene. Three times, Ollivander took a break to assist them, and matched three wands to their new witches and wizards, feeling far more haggard than usual.

His closing hour passed, and he continued on. The child did not wish to leave his side, and Ollivander relented, insisting only that he leave briefly to eat. Ollivander continued, deeply focused, not noticing when the child eventually returned.

"It's working," said the child. "I can see its echoes in the wood."

The sky became dark and Ollivander continued, his patronus growing less radiant. Midnight came and went, and he persisted. Eventually, he noticed the child had fallen asleep in the shop's spindly chair. He stopped briefly to cover him with a blanket, then went back to work. Hours later, his corporeal patronus winked out and he could not summon another. Reduced to conjuring silvery smoke, he continued to direct it at the bowl.

It had been decades since he'd stayed up all night to work. It was nostalgic, in a sense, but it did not agree with his aging body. Circles darkened under his increasingly bloodshot eyes as he struggled not to fall asleep.

When dawn broke, accompanied by birdsong, the only thing he could conjure was the smallest wisp of silver smoke. His coordination marred by exhaustion, his hand connected with the bowl, upending it and splashing its contents across the floor. The sound woke the boy.

Feeling he'd done all he could, Ollivander picked up the wand, handing it to him.

"Infused applewood, twelve inches, brittle."

He looked intently at the boy, but saw no sign of a successful match. As the room brightened from the rising sun, Ollivander's heart sank. Had all his efforts been for naught?

Then, he saw the boy's expression, and he realized the light was not coming from the sun, but from the boy, who was now glowing faintly. Sounds of a distant chorus filled the shop. Ollivander rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things out of exhaustion.

The light and sound reached a crescendo, then faded.

"It's beautiful," said the child, fishing in his pocket for Galleons without taking his eyes off the wand.

For Ollivander, the moment was bittersweet. He'd clearly managed to do something right, but he knew in his mind that the wand was weaker than any other he had made. He knew raw strength wasn't the be-all-end-all of wandcraft - otherwise he'd use only dragon heartstring in his wands. But he realized that the wand he'd made was, in some sense, incomplete.

"Wait here for a few minutes," he said, accepting the boy's money. He fetched a quill and parchment and began drafting a letter, his handwriting barely legible as his hand trembled.

The boy waited patiently. Ollivander handed him the letter.

"My patronus isn't the strongest. One of the professors from Hogwarts, perhaps Dumbledore himself, might be able to build on my efforts," Ollivander said. "This is a letter explaining the situation."

A quizzical expression crossed the child's face, as if Ollivander had suggested gilding a lily.

"Who knows, perhaps you shall learn that spell yourself one day and use it to imbue your wand with greater power," Ollivander said.

A wide smile appeared on the boy's face, and he leaned forward to hug Ollivander.

"Thank you. For everything," he said, wiping away a tear as he left.

Ollivander smiled, then sighed. He was about to collapse from exhaustion. He turned to his clock.

"Need sleep," he mumbled. "I'll open late."

He posted a note on the door, then turned back into the shop, only to hear somebody barging through the door behind him. A shiver ran down Ollivander's spine.

In his shop was what Ollivander could only describe as a wild girl. She had tanned skin, and thick hair covered her bare arms. Bear arms were draped over her shoulders, holding up a ragged pelt that dangled behind her. She was barefoot, wrapped in tattered hides, and had a belt made of what looked like small skulls wound around her waist.

"Need wand!" she said, twitching in the unfamiliar surroundings.

"No. Please leave. We're closed, I'll help you later…" Ollivander pleaded.

The girl's eyes focused on one of the shelves like a predator sighting its prey. In an instant, she pushed past Ollivander, and grabbed one of the boxes off the shelf. She seized the wand within, hurling the box to the floor.

 _Chestnut and dragon heartstring, ten inches, unyielding,_ thought one part of Ollivander's mind.

 _Stop her!_ thought the other.

Before he could do anything, the girl spread her arms, fists clenched. Facing the ceiling, she roared like a bear, howled like a wolf, and cried like a hippogriff in rapid succession.

Ollivander stared at her, blinking in surprise. The girl looked at the wand with a feral grin. Before Ollivander could overcome his shock, the girl was running for the door. Just before she left, she threw seven galleons behind her, as if disposing of trash. The door slammed shut.

"Well," said Ollivander. "How refreshingly straightforward."

With that, Ollivander collapsed into his chair, immediately drifting off to a deep, well deserved sleep.


End file.
